It's the Little Things
by HaloFin17
Summary: When you're the Winter Soldier in hiding, a domestic life isn't nearly as simple as it sounds. Alternately titled "Bucky in Bucharest." Enjoy!
**Summary:** When you're the Winter Soldier in hiding, a domestic life isn't nearly as simple as it sounds. Alternately titled "Bucky in Bucharest." Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** I wish I owned Bucky just so I could give him a hug – but I don't, so I can't. I wish I owned Steve so I could make him give Bucky a hug for me – but again I don't, so I can't. In short, I own nothing in the Marvel universe.

 **Author's Note:** I had originally envisioned this as more of a humorous, light-hearted fic depicting Bucky's struggles adapting to a normal-ish life. But because it's Bucky, things quickly took on a more somber tone. I hope it will still be an engaging story. Special thanks to **Kerichi** for sharing ideas and encouraging me to pursue this plot bunny down its rabbit hole. Her fic "Trigger Words" strongly helped inspire this piece. Enjoy!

 **It's the Little Things**

He decides to settle in Bucharest a few weeks after the Captain has been through the area, in search of the ever-elusive Winter Soldier. Staying in one place for more than a week or two doesn't sit well with him, but after a year and a half of running and evading, he's tired. Before this, he'd never been out of cryo-freeze for longer than a few days; and besides, the Soldier in him is desperate to reestablish some kind of orderly routine.

If his subconscious has any particular reason for choosing Bucharest, he is unaware of it. Romanian is one of many languages that he can now speak without remembering how or where or when he learned it. Despite knowing the language, it's not like he can apply for a job somewhere. He has no valid identification, obviously; and even in simple, manual labor, there's too great a risk that his metal arm will be exposed. It's easy enough to steal consumable goods or money in small increments to supply what he needs.

He rents a "furnished" apartment, paying cash in advance for three months, because he wouldn't know where to even begin if he had to furnish the place himself. The very first thing he does upon moving in is stock a backpack with various essentials (both practical and sentimental) and hide it under the floorboards, so he can grab it and go at a moment's notice if need be. He also covers the windows with old newspapers that he's pulled from the garbage.

Although far from fancy, at least it's a roof over his head when winter comes. And a bare mattress with a sleeping bag is far better than the cryo chamber where he "slept" for so long before. The twin mattress is barely long enough for him, but it's criminally comfortable compared to all other sleeping arrangements in his threadbare memory.

Not that he sleeps much, of course. True rest has been a luxury ever since he left the Captain on the riverbank; it comes only after his mind and body have both reached the boundaries of their exhaustion and finally shut down for a few hours. All other "sleep" is punctuated with fitful dreams at best and violent, horrific night terrors at worst. His jaw aches from clenching his teeth through it all. So most nights he lies awake, listening to the noises outside and wondering which will be the one to signify the end of his time in Bucharest. Chronic fatigue becomes an unwelcome yet unshakeable companion – as does the constant hunger.

He's never been out of cryo long enough to truly feel the extent of his new, enhanced appetite; and unlike other super-soldiers, he doesn't have an indebted government or a billionaire friend to help feed it. He eats enough to minimize, although not fully prevent, the loss of muscle mass; but he can never quite satisfy the ravenous wolf that seems to have grown inside his stomach like a parasite.

"Eat your fruits and vegetables," says a woman's voice from somewhere in the back of his head. He heeds the advice without really knowing why, and so begins to frequent the fresh market a few blocks away. He definitely prefers fruit over the vegetables, sampling all available types. Their natural sweetness reminds him that sugar is no longer a rationed substance, and it doesn't take long for candy bars to become a regular part of his diet, littered in various places across the apartment.

But the "wolf" craves meat in virtually any form, the leaner the better. Unfortunately, meat is expensive, so the Soldier turns to a simpler form of protein instead – eggs. It sounds like a good idea, until he realizes that the creators of his left arm clearly did not intend for it to be used in such humble, domestic affairs. Two dozen ruined eggs later, and he's finally taught himself how to crack one gently, without scrambling it in his fist before it even hits the pan.

In another attempt to outwit the ridiculously-fragile eggshell, he hard-boils them, figuring he'll save himself a good deal of mess and aggravation. But he didn't think far enough ahead. Once the eggs are cooked, he still needs to get them out of the shell; and as poorly-suited as his mechanical hand had been for breaking eggs, his cyber-fingertips are even worse at trying to delicately peel the shell away from the egg-white one tiny piece at a time. It takes days afterward for him to pick all the eggy bits out of the grooves and joints in his left hand. Thankfully, he's right-handed by nature, but he can't expect to do everything _one_ -handed going forward.

It's the little things like that which try his patience most severely – make him crumble a few cinder blocks into powder with his left hand just for the fun of it, and lead him to wonder if he had ever been a patient enough man to handle this type of situation calmly. It's bad enough that he has to relearn how to do the simplest functions of life with a metal, super-human hand. What makes it so much worse is that he doesn't remember _how_ to do those things in the first place.

Cooking appears to be the worst culprit because he can't fake his way through it. He has no idea what he's doing! But he _should_ know, and it infuriates him. Commonsense things like food prep, cooking times, or which utensils to use utterly escape him. As a result, he spends a lot of time just standing by the stove and staring down absently at his attempted meal – questioning what he's supposed to do next, while every other person in the world would know exactly what to do and how to do it without a second thought.

Having studied the man intensely at the Smithsonian, he dimly wonders if the Captain – if _Steve_ – also had this much trouble readapting to civilian life. The Soldier's knowledge of technology applies only to the devices with which Hydra had him trained – weapons and vehicles. Gadgets like "smart" telephones leave him feeling hopelessly bewildered and dumbfounded. The icons and terminology make no sense to him, he can never seem to press the right button, and of course a touchscreen doesn't respond to his metal fingers.

The very concept of cleaning doesn't even occur to him until the mess in the apartment becomes such that he feels it's compromised his escape routes. After that, he manages to keep the place pretty darn tidy, even if he still feels that he's just fumbling his way blindly through the chores. As for personal hygiene, this modern world is not shy about communicating what he needs. After much trial and error regarding which products to use when and where, his pragmatic discretion whittles society's list of "essentials" down to half its original length.

Clothing is taken wherever and whenever the appropriate sizes and styles are available; and by "styles," he simply means "as inconspicuous as humanly possible." He always wears a jacket or a sweatshirt with generously-long sleeves, along with a black glove over his left hand. As the weather warms, the lone glove catches a few more curious glances, but not to the point that it alarms him. And he doesn't mind the heat that comes from wearing extra layers of clothing; even now, he is _always_ cold.

Out in public, he wears a baseball cap and keeps his head down. Of the times when he is obligated to make eye contact with someone, he notices a recurring pattern that his encounters with women always seem to go a little more smoothly. Not that women are necessarily less dangerous, as he knows firsthand how appearances can be deceiving. But when he meets their eyes, something in their countenance seems to soften, and they smile at him.

During the first occurrence, he assumes that the young lady behind the drugstore counter is an undercover Hydra agent who recognizes him and is trying to put him off his guard. But in the end, there is no threat, and nothing goes amiss. Then the same thing happens again and again, and finally he begins to suspect that the women might actually find him attractive, a fact which would only be accentuated by eye contact.

The Soldier isn't sure what to make of that realization. It's unsettling because he doesn't want to make a lasting impression on anyone, doesn't want anyone to look at him for longer than is absolutely necessary; yet it also fans to life a tiny flame of masculine confidence that he never knew he possessed. He certainly doesn't understand what these women might find so appealing, considering all he sees when he passes a mirror is an assassin on the run and ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

But as awkward as that might be, he's even more uncomfortable around small children. He always seems to attract their attention for some reason, as if they can sense something "super-human" in his presence. Wide eyes look up at him, innocent and trusting, and it terrifies him to know how easily he might slip into a state of mind where he could crush their little skulls in one hand and never bat an eye.

Once the basic needs of his existence are met, he truly doesn't know what to do with himself to while away the day; with no mission and no orders from cruel men who hold his mind in their hands, he's aimless. Now the distractions become a problem – not that there are too many of them in Bucharest, but that he can't find a suitable one for himself. Has it always been this difficult to keep himself entertained?

He reaps ideas by observing the crowds around him. Lots of people pass their evenings drinking various concoctions, so he gives that a try. The burn of alcohol on his throat is eerily familiar, but no matter how much he consumes, he never reaches the relaxed, carefree attitude that everyone else is able to achieve. Besides, the whole "drinking" pastime appears to be more enjoyable when shared with a group of people. The other individuals drinking alone look almost as lonesome and weary as he feels.

Next he tries coffee. Many people are apparently addicted to this popular beverage, so he proceeds with caution. When the taste doesn't particularly appeal to him, he does some research at the library to discover that coffee contains caffeine – a sort of drug, as he figures it, that helps keep tired people awake. He doesn't need any help staying awake. So herbal, caffeine-free tea is his next gamble. While it doesn't exactly revolutionize his world, it's pleasant to drink while warm and has no discouraging side-effects.

The public library is a quiet place for the Soldier to "browse the Internet" or read up on the events of the last seventy years, and once again, he finds himself amazed at his own ability to read Romanian! He honestly can't say how many languages he speaks now; he didn't even know he could speak Romanian until someone had first spoken it _to_ him. But the National Library of Romania doesn't have many books on American history, which is supposedly the most applicable to his own forgotten past.

Reading at the library inspires him to start a journal of his own – a way to record his random, fragmented memories as they come to him. Perhaps, once he has gathered enough information, he'll be able to organize words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into a story. But one thing almost stops his journaling efforts before they're even begun – he doesn't remember how to write. Once again, he's forgotten the little things, which turn out to be monumental things. If he thinks about writing, he can't do it. Not until he consciously lets go of the effort and frustration, allowing his hand simply to move of its own accord, do the shaky words finally appear on paper – in a multitude of languages.

And it doesn't matter if he writes with a pen or a pencil; he breaks both of them. Even with his right hand, he grips too tightly when his mind drifts into the haunted past, and he snaps his writing utensils in half. It's like the eggs all over again – as though his hands only know how to squeeze with strength meant to strangle the life out of some tender throat. Still, his efforts are rewarded as both bitter and bittersweet memories soon begin to add up, building one on top of another. It brings him very near to tears, then, when he rereads the entries only days later, and some of them already look strange to him again. It's his handwriting, such as it is, but it feels like he must have written while in the midst of some hallucination he no longer remembers having.

He gathers that many people enjoy going to the movies. There is no television or even a radio in his apartment, which suits the Soldier just fine. When he's at home, with his guard as low as it ever gets, he doesn't want anything nearby that might interfere with his ability to hear someone approach from the outside. But he decides to explore the cinematic universe and very quickly learns that he needs to stay away from most films. Action or suspense movies are out for obvious reasons; dramas still come a little too close to triggering emotions he is either unwilling or unprepared to explore, and he doesn't understand the humor of modern-day comedies.

Cartoon movies are a little better. Lighthearted, for the most part, and sometimes they can almost make him laugh. He doesn't even mind being the only lone adult in the theater. But movies for children are rife with themes of friendship, and after watching them, he dreams of the Captain without fail. Better than nightmares about Hydra, he supposes, but still painful in a different, aching sort of way. The same type of empty longing that grips his chest after memories of losing his left arm, an inherent part of himself. He stops going to the movies altogether.

Sports offer a more tolerable distraction at times, and he thinks that he must have liked sports before, too. The non-contact or individual sports get a little boring, but full-contact sports are almost too violent for his overly-sensitive psyche. The "sweet spot" seems to be organized team sports like handball, volleyball, or football; his aggravated subconscious offers "soccer" as an alternate name for that last one. It's almost amusing to imagine how well his super-soldier body would perform in today's arena of professional sports.

In the end, he finds unexpected solace in music. He doesn't remember liking music in his former life, or what kind of music even if he did. The young people around him always seem to be listening to music, but he really doesn't care for the contemporary songs that fill their ears. It just sounds like a lot of noise to him. When he tries the music of his old era, he can only listen to so much before the agony of _recognizing_ but not _remembering_ sends him spiraling down into a fresh bout of depression.

There are countless options from the decades in between the two time periods, but it's hard to find a song where neither the music nor the lyrics render him overly melancholy. Of all things, he loses himself in classical music – mostly Russian composers like Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky. The artistry and feeling woven through those notes allow him to tentatively wade into the depths of his emotions without lyrics putting unwelcome words inside his head. Again, the library is a truly helpful resource as he pursues this remedy.

Time drags on into months, and nothing exciting happens in his apartment or in his life. The Soldier almost begins to believe that his efforts at hiding have been successful. But then a newspaper headline shoots ice into his blood once again, and he hurries home from the market to find the Captain standing in front of the refrigerator, with his back to the door and the memory journal clutched in one hand.

Bucky's breath catches, and his heart pounds; yet the name is perched on his lips even as the other man asks for recognition.

"You're Steve."

 **Author's End Note:** I kind of hate to end it here, just as things are getting "exciting." But considering that I haven't actually changed anything, I don't know what I would write beyond telling the story we already know. And what a wonderful story it is! I can only conclude that Bucky and Steve need each other on SO many levels. Thanks for reading!


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